‘Lauren Geary,’ said the woman. She was wearing a wine-red high-collared blouse and a long black skirt. Chin up, she had an air of competence, a person who managed things, commanded obedience. She put out a hand. ‘You’re Mr Calder. Graham told me.’
We shook hands.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Carson,’ she said, ‘but Carmen’s told me something.’
Pat nodded.
‘She remembers seeing a man near the record store two or three times. There’s a tram stop but once he was still there when they came out.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, trams go by every few minutes. It’s peak hour. So he couldn’t have been waiting for a tram.’
‘Can she describe him?’ I said. It was hard to keep in mind that I was only a bagman, not paid to do anything else.
Pat put up his hands. ‘Frank, this is not the time. Lauren, they want money, we’re givin the bastards money. Tomorrow, Frank will give em the money. Then when Anne’s safe we’ll find em, make sure they don’t do this again. The police can ask all the questions then.’
Lauren Geary looked at me, looked at Pat. He smiled at her. It wasn’t the smile of an elderly employer, not that kind of smile.
‘Fine,’ she said, nodding. ‘Afterwards. Yes, when we’ve got her back.’ She turned to me. ‘I’ve put you in the Garden House, Mr Calder. I’ll send over some clothes for you to try on.’
‘I’m going home for clothes,’ I said. ‘But thank you.’
When she’d gone, Pat, revived, held out his glass. I fetched the decanter and poured a fat finger. He drank, studying me. There was something he wanted to talk about. ‘Alice,’ he said, ‘never stopped botherin me. When she came back to us, the police questioned her. Over and over. Even hypnotised the little thing. Nothing. Very calm, she was, like a little grown-up, but she couldn’t tell em anythin. Never saw a face except for a few seconds at the start, in the garage. Where they kept her, the man wore somethin over his head, a mask.’
He sighed. ‘Then, when that was over, we had the psychiatrist. That was the advice we got. From America. A specialist in victims. A week here, talkin to her every day. Dr Wynn. I reckon that was our mistake. Maybe you should just leave people alone. Maybe she would have gotten over it if we just pretended it never happened. What do you think, Frank?’
What did I think? A man who had nightmares almost every night. ‘I think you probably did the best you could,’ I said.
The old eyes were on me, looking for something. ‘Man is born unto trouble,’ he said.
I said, ‘As the sparks fly upwards.’
Deep lines at the corners of Pat’s mouth. ‘Know your Job. Soldier. Policeman. Haven’t been a bloody priest too, have you?’
‘My mother,’ I said. ‘She had a lot of time for Job.’
‘This job,’ he said. ‘Just a good man to give em what they want. Don’t want any police stuff, any messin about with who and why. Clear to you, is it, Frank?’
I said yes, drove home, found the two new shirts, the emergency shirts, packed a small bag. It wasn’t hard to leave the cold, unlovely unit, drip hitting the kitchen sink like a finger tapping.
WE SAT in the library, four of us, me, Tom Carson reading a computer printout, Graham Noyce writing in a small leather-bound book, Orlovsky apparently asleep, hands in his lap, palms upward, right cupping left. Barry Carson was next door, talking to his father.
I was looking out of a window, watching the flow of life in the compound, when the call came. It was 12.35.
Tom dropped the printout into his open briefcase, let the phone ring twice, three times, four times, going through the routine with his fountain pen. Barry was in the doorway by the time Tom picked up the receiver.
‘Tom Carson.’
He listened, then he turned to Noyce, standing to his right, and said, ‘Mobile number.’
Noyce had a business card out in seconds. Tom read a number from it, slowly. Then he listened again and said, ‘Yes.’
Pause.
‘Yes. What about the release of Anne?’
He took the receiver away from his ear.
Noyce was at the table, pressed the button. The strange voice said:
Give me a mobile number, quickly.
Tom asking Noyce for a number, reading it off the card.
One person take the money in a sports bag to the Melbourne Cricket Ground tomorrow. Sit at the top of the Great Southern Stand. Be there by half-time and wait for a call on the mobile number. Understand?
Tom saying, Yes.
One person. Any funny business or any sign of the police, you will never hear anything about the girl again. Understand?
Tom saying, Yes. What about the release of Anne?
You’ll hear.
Disconnection.
Silence in the room. Tom got up from the writing table. He was in weekend clothes: lightweight tweed jacket, cream woollen shirt.
‘Well,’ he said, looking at me. ‘Over to you. Why the fuck the MCG?’
‘This is Melbourne,’ said Orlovsky, a finger moving in the collar of his shirt, loosening the slippery nylon secondhand-shop tie. He straightened in his chair as if he were about to leave.
Eyes were upon him. Mr Calder’s associate.
‘Carlton plays Collingwood,’ he said. ‘Even kidnappers, they want the money but they want to support their team.’
Tom looked at Orlovsky for several seconds, the slate eyes, not a blink. Orlovsky looked back, the startlingly blue eyes, not a blink. Then Tom looked at Noyce, blaming him for Orlovsky. Noyce couldn’t hold his gaze, accepted blame. I was sorry, because after Noyce, it was me, and I wasn’t going to blink either.
‘This is just the beginning,’ said Barry.
Everyone looked at him. He was leaning against the doorjamb, not in golf clothes today. Today, it was grey, all grey, like a drug dealer or an architect or someone who owned a smart cafe designed by architects. Different glasses too, more oval than the day before, duck’s egg shape, with a black rim.
‘That’s a fucking useful contribution, Barry,’ said Tom. ‘Matches your finest insights to date. And what a standard that is to live up to.’
In the air, contempt hung like flyspray.
‘Big crowd,’ I said. ‘Easy to switch bags, lots of exits.’
Noyce said, ‘Wouldn’t they be scared that we’d seal the ground, check bags?’ He coughed, ‘Sorry, silly, we’re just paying up. Anxiety drives out common sense.’
‘Depleting small reserves,’ said Tom. ‘Get a sports bag.’ It was a bark.
I watched Noyce. He straightened his spine, made small masticating movements, opened his lips, not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. The set of his shoulders changed to favour his right side. Then he drew the back of the index finger of his right hand across his upper lip, put his hand behind his head. You can see these signs any time you care to stay late in the wrong pubs, get down to the hard core, just you and men who love life and beating the shit out of it.
‘I’d like to say, Tom,’ Noyce said, lawyer’s smooth and reasonable voice but with a twang in it, the twang of taut piano wire, a little tremolo, ‘that I won’t be spoken to like that. Not in private. Or in public.’
Tom turned his body to Noyce, full on, challenge accepted. But he didn’t have to fight Noyce, he could sack him on the spot. Or couldn’t he? There was a moment of indecision, of calculation, of balancing things. Then Tom made a flicking gesture with his left hand. ‘Point taken,’ he said, no contrition in his low, throaty voice, in his movement only impatience. ‘Let’s get on to what has to be done.’
That wasn’t enough for Noyce. He breathed out hard, nostrils flaring.
‘Point taken? I’m not sure it is. I think I’d be better off walking out now and sending you my…’
‘Graham,’ said Barry Carson, his voice emphatic but entreating. He had come across the room, put his back to his brother, extended a hand to touch the sleeve of Noyce’s jacket.
Noyce didn’t
look at Barry, didn’t take his eyes off Tom. He had the look of a bullied schoolboy, scared, but determined to look his tormentor in the face.
Barry moved to block Noyce’s view of Tom’s face. He didn’t want Noyce to leave. ‘Don’t take Tom so seriously, Graham,’ he said. ‘It’s just that he’s a man born to command. Pity they timed the wars so badly.’
‘What the hell’s goin on?’
Pat Carson was at the door, leaning on a walking stick. Standing, grey suit loose on him, he looked closer to his age, but not much. He looked at Tom.
‘Don’t bother to tell the old man what’s happenin? That’s the attitude, is it? I have to come to find out?’
He turned back towards his study. ‘Frank, come and tell me,’ he said over his shoulder.
I waited until he was well away, then I said to the Carson brothers, ‘Would you like me to do that?’
Barry said, ‘Yes. Thank you, Frank.’
Noyce cleared his throat. ‘A sports bag,’ he said, pride put aside for the moment. ‘There must be a sports bag somewhere.’
‘Tell Lauren to find one,’ said Tom, tone a little less military this time.
I went down the passage, knocked on the open door. Pat was behind his desk again, chair swivelled sideways. The shutters were open and he was looking out at a paved, walled courtyard, a secret place, with low hedges and lemon trees growing in big pots. Without turning, he gestured for me to enter.
Standing, I told him about the phone call.
‘What about lettin her go?’
‘Tom asked. He said: “You’ll hear from us.”’
Pat swivelled to face me, rubbed his jaw, studied me. Finally, he said, ‘Don’t be a policeman tomorrow, Frank. No police work. Just give em the money.’
I nodded. ‘I’m in a giving mood.’
‘And on the money subject, the advance on the fee, Graham give you that?’
‘Yes.’ It was in my jacket pocket: a hundred new hundred-dollar notes in an envelope. I didn’t want to but I said, ‘Thank you.’
He waved a hand dismissively, a hand like a big plucked wing. ‘Mind you do what the bastards tell you. Nothin more. Then we’ll settle with em. By God, we will.’
TWO HUNDRED thousand dollars in fifties in a sports bag doesn’t weigh much, a few kilos. In the VIP carpark under the Great Southern Stand, tense in the stomach, I took the soft-leather Louis Vuitton bag out of the boot of Noyce’s Mercedes, felt for his tiny mobile phone in my inside jacket pocket.
‘Mr Calder?’ A fair-haired young man in a business suit, club tie. He put out a hand. ‘I’m Denzil Hobbes. I’ve been asked to meet you.’
Noyce had arranged the parking and the reception. It seemed a Carson company had a corporate box in the stand. Orlovsky was doing it harder. Not a Mercedes but his old Holden Premier, not a VIP parking spot but a long walk from across the river to a public entrance.
‘It’s pretty much a full house,’ Hobbes said. ‘I’ve got someone holding a seat for you. We can go up in the lift.’
‘No,’ I said, ‘I’ll walk. Just show me the stairs.’
‘They’re ramps actually,’ he said. ‘One in ten incline, very easy climbing. You haven’t been here before?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll show you the one to take. Ramps take eight abreast. In an emergency, we can clear the stand in twelve minutes.’
I nodded approvingly. It would be nice if people behaved that way, serried ranks of the terrified moving steadily downwards, eight abreast.
‘I’ll give you a card,’ said Hobbes. ‘Ring me if you need anything. Anything at all. When you get to the top, your seat is to the right. First seat to the right. Not the best view. The aisle seat in the back row. Just tap the man in it on the shoulder and introduce yourself. He’s expecting you. Obviously.’
Obviously. This was Carson money talking.
‘What about my colleague?’ I said.
‘He’s up there. To your left, also on the aisle.’
Traffic was light on the way up. On the long way up. At the top, I came out into the pale grey afternoon light to a stunning scene, thousands upon thousands of people around the green circle, the stand seemingly leaning over it. Then a huge explosion of sound. Something had happened on the field, some event dramatic enough to cause all mouths to open.
CARLTON 38, COLLINGWOOD 17 said the scoreboard. Ten minutes from half-time.
I found the seat, tapped the occupant on the shoulder. Another young man in a suit, a small galaxy of spots on his broad brow. ‘Calder,’ I said.
He too wanted to shake hands, gave his name: Sean Rourke. Polite staff, well-groomed, the corporate box tenants would expect that.
When he’d gone, I looked left, looked away. Orlovsky was wearing a filthy anorak and holding a radio to his right ear. The Carsons hadn’t been happy about him coming along. I took out the mobile phone, held it in my left hand, made sure I knew which button to press when it vibrated. Then, a girl’s life at stake, I tried to concentrate on the game. Collingwood were playing a strange brand of football, going sideways, backwards, kicking to empty spaces, no central nervous system in control.
‘Sweet Jesus, convent girls, want it, don’t want it, they get it, they don’t know where to fucken put it,’ said the man next to me, a Collingwood supporter, lean-faced, mostly unshaven, with scar tissue under his right eye and a nose set askew. He caught my eye. ‘What I reckon,’ he said to me, blast of raw alcohol in the breath, ‘piss-poor coachin, that’s what I reckon.’
‘Me too,’ I said. ‘That’s what I reckon.’ Why did he assume my support of Collingwood? It dawned on me: there were only two colours on display around us: jumpers, beanies, scarves, huge Mad Hatter’s Teaparty hats, all in the sacred black and white, sin and purity, evil and innocence, the colours of certainty. This was Collingwood country.
‘Get this inya,’ said the skew-nosed man, warmed by our mutual contempt for the coach. He was offering a litre plastic bottle of an orange-brown liquid. I took a swig, felt tears start in my eyes, a prickling in my scalp follicles.
‘Bottla Bundy in there,’ said the man, not taking his eyes off the game. ‘Carn ya fucken sheilas!’
Carlton were all over Collingwood until half-time, kicking another goal and a behind just before the siren.
We all stood up.
‘Jesus,’ said my new friend, ‘just lie down and let the mongrels piss on em, that’d be better.’ He drank some more from the plastic bottle. ‘Speakin of piss, I kin taste it. Comin?’
‘I’m okay,’ I said.
He squeezed past me. ‘Watch the stuff, mate,’ he said, cocking his head at his army-surplus canvas rucksack.
The tiny telephone vibrated in my hand, a sensuous feeling.
I pressed the button.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Are you where you should be?’ The electronic voice.
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, this is what you do…’ You do what you’re told to do. Afterwards, the crowd didn’t hinder me as I walked up the stand, bent on leaving the stadium as quickly as possible. On the last ramp before the carpark, I took off the beanie I’d paid a startled fan fifty dollars for, dropped it in a bin.
I didn’t have any plans that included a Collingwood beanie.
‘YOU MIGHT’VE hung onto a few thousand,’ Orlovsky said, getting into the Mercedes with his briefcase, bringing in cold air, brushing rain off his scalp. ‘Honesty’s a much overrated virtue.’
‘Not when it’s the only one you’ve got,’ I said. ‘What’d you get?’
I had just finished my call to Noyce. We were on the St Kilda beachfront, near the lifesaving club, rain blowing off the bay. Only a few people out: two men in bright rain gear walking a fat and splay-footed black Labrador; an old woman, scarf tied under her chin above layers of sagging clothing; a small and threatening squad of inline skaters, indifferent to weather and fellow-humans and gravity.
‘Nothing. Call’s from a payphone at Royal Melbourne Ho
spital.’
I was dispirited, watching the skaters. They were coming up at speed behind the men with the dog, in formation, two tight ranks of three. Just when it seemed the front rank had to crash into the walkers, it parted, two left, one right, second rank following suit, going around the men and coalescing again like water flowing around a rock.
‘One thing worth knowing, though.’
‘Which is?’
‘Camel,’ he said.
‘What?’ I looked at him, startled. ‘What’s worth knowing?
‘Driver’s a secret Camel smoker.’
Orlovsky had opened the glovebox. Packed with packets of cigarettes, it glowed like a Walt Disney cave. With two fingers, he extracted a packet, put it in his inside jacket pocket.
‘Yes, honesty’s a much overrated virtue,’ he said. ‘There’s something else. My original opinion was this dickhead thinks he can hide his voice with some primitive piece of shit from a mail-order catalogue. Wrong. He’s no dickhead. That’s worth knowing.’
Orlovsky’s thumbs released the briefcase catches. The lid popped up. A laptop computer hidden in a battered leather briefcase.
‘I borrowed this,’ Orlovsky said. ‘Box of tricks.’ He switched on, did some key tapping.
Are you where you should be? said the electronic voice from the laptop speakers.
Yes. Me.
Okay, this is what you do. If there’s wrapping on the money, take it off. Then walk down to the front of the stand and throw the money off. All of it. Understand?
Yes.
Don’t talk to anyone. We’ll know. Just do it. Now.
My voice: First tell us when we get the girl back.
Do as you’re told. Or the girl dies. Understand? Just do as you’re told.
Mick tapped. Now a different electronic voice said the last words. He tapped again. Yet another eerie nonhuman voice. Then another one. And another.
‘This is smart stuff,’ Mick said. ‘The boy didn’t buy this machine anywhere. The Feds’ voice ID software can’t crack it.’
‘You know that?’
‘I know that.’
‘You’re hacking into the Feds’ system. What’s the penalty for that?’
Shooting Star Page 4
